Thirty years old at the time of my marriage, I was also too pragmatic to insist upon a lavish celebration. Since I had only lived in Connecticut for a little more than two years, I did not have a long list of local friends to invite. Max and I did not believe in grandfathering back to our previous lives to pack a house of worship or reception hall with spectators and partygoers. I did not invite everyone from work and the rink. Max did not invite everyone he knew since childhood. We sent invitations selectively, limiting our guest list to family and close friends.
We married in mid December before the Christmas holidays, which provided a convenient reason not to expect casual acquaintances to attend. We did not plan the wedding to specifically exclude anyone, thus relieving our guilt for not posting universal invites in the break rooms of our respective workplaces. However, a church and restaurant banquet room in Maple Terrace were simply available at that time. I did send invitations to several college friends, most of whom had moved on with their lives far from the towns where we originally met. Of the old friends I invited, only Talbert accepted.
Talbert had graduated from Carolina Tech the spring after I left, as he had decided. He had secured employment in Southern California for a packaged foods company. I asked Talbert to stand beside me with my sister, Carole, who served as maid of honor and my new sister-in-law, Felicia Svenssen. Felicia and Carole wore elegant ruby colored gowns, becoming to sophisticated adult women. Talbert’s tie matched the gowns.
I wore a fluffy confection of ivory organza lined in soft pink. A rum pink silk satin bodice glistened around the neckline with delicate sprinkles of beadwork. But the bouffant organza skirt was a fashion mistake. I would have been better served by a matching satin A-line design with a coordinating shimmer of beading at the hemline. The waistline was too high, chopping my tall but muscular body unfavorably in half. My torso looked short and stacked. My long powerful legs, shapely from years of skating, were lost under fairytale skirts. With a tiara of petal pink rhinestones perched on my head clasping a gossamer cloud of veiling, I felt like a princess even if I resembled a professional wrestler in drag. I probably did not look as foolish as the pictures recount. Big athletic women simply do not photograph as well as petite little birds. I know I was happy on my wedding day, and that glow of joy probably overshadowed the organza explosion of my bridal costume, at least from the perspective of the people who saw me in person.
My mother did not complain about my appearance and may have even been pleased to see me in such a feminine youthful dress. Ironically, I chose to clothe myself in a frock analogous to the silly green taffeta thing she selected when I served as her bridesmaid. As a consumer psychologist, I found this interesting after the fact, when I looked at the photographs and recovered from how frumpy the dress made me appear. My loyalty to a mythological bridal image had guided my purchase decision. I selected a gown true to my childhood fantasies rather than consistent with my adult needs. Since my wedding itself was fairly conservative and vastly divergent from those ideals, the organza gown remained a final bastion of girlish whimsy.
Max’s brother, Mitchell, and his wife, Felicia, had told us about a winter vacation to Ottawa they had taken a few years before. Mitch and Felicia had skated the Rideau Canal, which was maintained as a skating “rink” from near the Parliament Buildings to Dow’s Lake, almost eight kilometers away. When I heard about the longest skating rink in the world, I was understandably intrigued. Instead of skating in circles, I could propel myself long distances, spinning, jumping, and spiraling all the way. Initially, I daydreamed about a wedding ceremony on the canal, me wearing custom figure skates under my bridal gown, trailing a sweep train of organza through the snow. The diaphanous fabric of my skirts would brush the frozen surface free of slush revealing blade mark scrolls and curlicues. Nothing sparks child-like imagination in females like a bridal image. Combining that mystique with an enormous ice arena created the ultimate fantasy. Of course, Max and I did not actually say our vows on the Rideau Canal or even have photographs taken in our wedding clothes, but the image of those possibilities filled many a dull hour at Consumer Solutions.
While most people choose to honeymoon in the Caribbean or Hawaii, especially if they marry in December, Maxwell and I traveled to Ottawa. Max enjoyed wintertime activities and had backyard skated as a boy. He also welcomed the fun of skating on the world’s longest rink. While he may have had other preferences, when my face lit up during Mitch and Felicia’s account of their trip to Ottawa, he knew this would be the best honeymoon for us. I never missed lounging on a sunny, warm beach. Given the choice, I preferred unlimited ice time.
We arrived in Ottawa late at night. Under the streetlights and reflection of the moon off the snow, I saw people moving along the canal, below street level. They were not walking, but gliding in the unmistakable cadence possible only on skates. At nearly midnight, Canadians were outside skating on the Rideau Canal! My heart began to pound, driving exhaustion out of my system. I usually fall asleep early, like most fulltime working folk who have to report for duty by eight o’clock every morning. Yet, the magical flow of skaters over natural ice revived me.
After checking into our hotel, we walked to the canal where we donned skates and tucked our street shoes under a park bench. The concession stands along the edges of the frozen waterway were closed for the evening, but during business hours, served hot treats to skaters right on the ice. That late night, I skated blissfully down the canal among other people who apparently did not have to get up the next morning or valued outdoor skating over sleep. The ice was not Zamboni smooth, but maintained with street cleaning equipment and regular flooding. Yet, I could easily skate backward and perform simple freestyle movements. However, the ice seemed too rough and unyielding to accommodate the delicate precision of a spinning rocker. My favorite spins fizzled after a few revolutions and traveled in aimless corkscrews. Large cracks crisscrossed the width of the canal creating obstacles that could easily catch a freestyle blade or toe pick. Most of the locals wore hockey skates that readily traversed the most unfriendly obstructions. On his hockey blades, Max paid little attention to the crevasses that I consciously stepped over, breaking my otherwise graceful stride.
On a brisk sunny day, we skated the length of the Rideau Canal stopping occasionally for a snack or a cup of hot chocolate. At each resting point, we talked to people who had traveled from around the region and both sides of the border to enjoy this wonderland. A middle-aged woman twirled naively on a pair of department store plastic boots with attached hockey blades. Her husband clapped approvingly. “You look like Barbara Ann Scott!” the man teased, referring to the Canadian lady who captured the 1948 Olympic gold medal in St. Moritz, Switzerland. As an American fan of ice skating, I had heard of Scott but never recalled her name used as a household word, but this was Canada and she remained an icon of the sport as Dorothy Hamill and Peggy Fleming did in the United States.
At the end of the journey, Dow Lake offered a winter carnival of ice sculpture, games, and hot tasty foods. People on skates milled about eating, sipping warm beverages, and viewing exhibits. It was literally a county fair on ice. While Max ordered hot dogs, I skated expertly in front of the booth, making a large circle of backward crossovers accented with waltz jumps and salchows. A simple one-foot spin punctuated the center. No one seemed to pay much attention to me. I was obviously not a professional entertainer. Professional skaters performed exhibitions at specific times on a rink that was prepared especially for this purpose, its ice more carefully maintained. However, I expected to see numerous little princesses bundled in pastel fleece showing off along the canal and on Dow Lake, as I myself had done in front of the concession stands. Actually, I witnessed very little figure skating.
Freestyle skating on the canal was obviously limited by the condition of the ice, which could not be considered bad, but was certainly not the quality expected at an indoor arena. The naturally occurring cracks that result from ice heaving and settling presented dangerous complications for freestyle skaters. An edge caught in such a fault might cause a skater to twist or break her ankle. Yet, in a bend in the canal where the water slowed on the outside curve, the ice had frozen smooth and glassy. Distance skaters, taking the shortest route, traversed the inside track, leaving the far side of the waterway almost untouched by metal blades. The reflective surface of this almost perfect ice drew me from my path. Dark underneath, the ice welcomed my presence, inviting its own exploitation. Here I could spin as though practicing in the center of Hans Koenig’s small Ice Chalet. A camel spin lifted into position and rotated a little slower than usual under the clear blue sky. From street level above, two women watched and applauded appreciatively. They called out flattering comments, oblivious to the actual quality of my performance. While my camels had become quite good, this example was not my best, partially because wedding plans had detracted from my practice time and also because outdoor ice tends to be harder than ice maintained in a heated rink. I doubt these women had seen many people, even children, spinning on the canal. My spontaneous display of freestyle skating delighted them during their morning walk.
Max and I spent so much time on the canal that we both came down with an annoying case of the sniffles that kept us off the ice for a couple of days and sent us shopping, restaurant sampling, and to a professional hockey game. We left Ottawa on a sunny Saturday morning, and the canal was alive with activity. I watched it through the car windows until a turn in the road interrupted our parallel course. I could not have had a better honeymoon. The sun had shone and the ice was good. A bride and groom favored by these blessings would surely live happily ever after.
My marriage ceremony to Dr. Maxwell Svenssen did not superficially resemble the wedding fantasies I shared with my high school girlfriends or the images I concocted while working in the Sacramento bridal salon. Like most young ladies, I had envisioned a grand affair of flowers, bouffant lace, buttercream frosting, tuxedos with tailcoats, candlelight, and gilt. Every detail would be perfect and painstakingly planned. Girls do not understand the cost of these fineries, having no personal experience with independent life and its expenses. Instead, they imagine loving generous parents picking up the tab and indulging their princess’s every whim. A formal wedding complete with limousines, a string quartet, dance band, and caterer can cost tens of thousands of dollars. As a budding professional, I did not have tens of thousands of dollars. After struggling for years to earn a graduate diploma with minimal debt, I was not about to mortgage my soul for a one-day party. My father would have contributed something but was too practical to spend an exorbitant amount of money on a glorified shindig. I did not ask my parents to host or fund my wedding. Max was finally overcoming his investment in veterinary partnership and preferred a small intimate wedding to a big blowout.
Chapter 70 posted 4/3/03
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